Therapy
by mialicia
Summary: Sam and Dean find their own kind of therapy, all thanks to a flat tire. WINCEST. Rated M. ONE-SHOT.


**Because the boys would never **_**actually**_** go to therapy. I just had this idea floating around in my head and figured it'd be a good place to get it down. ONE SHOT.**

**Read, enjoy, review!**

**Disclaimer:**** Everything owned by the CW and those affiliated with Supernatural.**

It all starts with a flat tire.

A run-of-the-mill hunt _and_ a flat tire. They'd gotten wind of some strange deaths somewhere around Boise, Idaho. A gathering murmur trickling down through various hunters until it had landed in Bobby's lap and he'd passed it along to the Winchester brothers. Told them it would do them some good, take their mind off The Event. Dean had taken the assignment in stony silence and it had been up to Sam to voice that little protest the brothers never seemed to be without. Wasn't there a bigger picture here? What about the yellow-eyed demon? He was out there somewhere, smiling his crocodile smile and singing the praises of John Winchester's foolishness.

Dean had grabbed Sam by the shoulders, trying to drag him out from under Bobby's sympathetic stare before it turned into "A Dr. Phil episode" (his words, not Sam's). The older hunter had given them the location, what he knew, and sent them on their way. Hunched over in the passenger seat of the Impala, Sam had refused to look at Dean. Instead his lips curled in a frown, like something just didn't add up and he couldn't see the solution no matter how hard he looked. Any attempt at conversation on Dean's part was shot down by a mumble as Sam turned his body toward the door, face almost against the glass of the window.

Around mile one hundred Dean had finally given up on getting Sam to talk and turned on the radio, static buzzing through the Impala until he found a station. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat, soft leather against hardened skin, but his gaze never stayed on the road for too long. Sam either didn't notice this or didn't care; he was too busy watching the world pass by in a green-blue blur.

The hunt had been routine enough; a couple demons having some fun in their downtime. No yellow-eyed ones, though. Not one that looked at the Winchesters with a spark of recognition mixed with ingrained loathing. Sam had done the exorcisms after Dean had rounded them up with a little bit of rocksalt and a dictionary full of harsh words. There was a point, while Sam was reading the exorcism to the last demon, that his voice faltered and fell, beaten down by something Dean couldn't comprehend. Sam hadn't bothered to articulate the pause; simply cleared his throat and continued to recite the incantation like nothing had happened.

The demons purged, the town restored to its state of _everything is right with the world_, the brothers had decided to find a motel for the night to sleep, to let Bobby know that they'd taken care of the problem. Sam had insisted on staying at the one in the small town. Dean had asked if they served breakfast in the morning. Sam had said he didn't think so. Dean had told him no way in hell were they staying somewhere that didn't serve breakfast, that was that, and they'd drive until they found one that did.

They'd been driving for twenty minutes, the sun dipping below the horizon, rays outstretched like golden fingers, when there'd been a faint _pop_ and the Impala had shuttered. A few explications later the Impala was pulled off to the side of the road and Sam and Dean were standing shoulder to shoulder, looking at a deflated back tire.

"I told you we should have just stayed back in town, Dean," Sam mutters under his breath, trying but failing to keep the laughter from his voice. He can't help but find the situation amusing after a day of stressful work. He chances a glance a Dean's direction, seeing a tense jaw and flared nostrils. Angry Dean is in the building. "You have a spare, right?"

The question causes something in Dean's arms to twitch and now his fingers are curled into fists. He stays like that for a moment or two and Sam starts to wonder if this is when he'll see his brother break. When he'll admit that their father's death has wormed its way into his mind and is doing more damage than he lets on. For a brief flicker of impossibility Sam wants to egg him on, push all the right buttons just to see what will happen. But he grabs hold of the urge and puts it back where it came from; shoving his brother into a corner will only keep him silent.

"No. There wasn't room." And with that Dean turns, walks to the back of the Impala, and leans against the trunk. He's looking out at the sun, squinting, as it gives one last burst of light before slipping below the horizon. Sam hesitates, hands stuck deep in his pockets and shoes scuffing at the loose gravel of the road. He knows without asking what's bothering Dean; they haven't seen another car in the last half hour, and they've already established that the cell service out here is next to nothing. With no spare, they're stuck. Stuck, hungry, and tired makes it easier for less-than-pleasant attitudes to descend, wrapping them in poison words. With a sigh echoing of resignation Sam follows Dean's path, leaning against the bumper and staring out into gathering darkness.

It's subtle at first, the sky all purples and pinks, stars winking where the light has vanished. Sam feels a chill steal down his back, icy fingertips crawling across his shoulders and he pulls his jacket tighter around himself, blinking. And then it's dark, evening turning into night as easily as someone flicking a light switch off. The transition startles Sam from his silence and he shifts, leaning against Dean to keep his balance. But then…then he doesn't move again because his brother's so _warm_ and it's downright _cold_ out here, his breath leaving his lips in clouds of wispy white.

"So, uh. We just gonna stand here all night?" Sam's voice is too loud in the silence of this nowhere land but not talking is even worse. Dean hasn't shifted away from him (_good, need to stay close, stay together_) yet if he doesn't say anything soon he's going to drive Sam crazy. "There's probably a town a few miles up the road. I could walk there and see-"

"Stop it, Sam." Dean's voice is so raw it startles Sam. His mouth snaps shut and he steps away from the car to stand in front of Dean. His brother's gaze roams aimlessly until it falls on him and there're tears in his eyes, snaking salty paths down his cheeks. "Just shut up about the fucking tire already." The words tremble on Dean's lips and it's the sob that finally unnerves Sam. Something lodges its way into his throat and he finds that he's on the brink of crying too and really, what good is it going to do them if they both break down in the middle of nowhere?

He can do no more than stare at Dean in the darkness, faint, early moonlight illuminating his damp cheeks, bringing his shaking shoulders into sharp focus. His big brother is crying. Dean, Mr. I'm-going-to-protect-you-at-all-costs, is breaking in front of him and isn't trying to hide it. Doesn't matter what exactly brought the tears on because now there's this pain deep in Sam's chest and if he doesn't do anything soon he's going to lose it and then they'll both be useless, no one to pick up the pieces.

So he takes a step forward. Reaches out, feeling the smooth leather of Dean's jacket as he curls his fingers around his brother's shoulders and pulls him forward. Dean comes without protest and he's enveloped in Sam's arms, close, so close. They cling to each other for what seems like hours, like there's nothing else in the world that matters as much, like everything else has died and they're all they've got left. Dean smells like gunpowder and sweat, but beneath that there's a hint of the body wash he always insists on buying when they stop at a gas station. Sam usually teases him about it but right now he'd buy out every station for the next thousand miles.

At one point they stumble away from the trunk of the car, all arms and tears and then they're in the backseat, away from the chill of the night. Sam's sitting there as Dean clears his throat, eyes on the ground with his shoulders hunched, a mirror image of Sam's position from earlier in the day. The only sound is their breathing, labored and deep, like they've just run a marathon and are coming down from the high of winning first place. Sam glances over at Dean's profile, hands clasped in his lap.

"Listen, Dean. I know you said before that you're okay, but you're clearly not, and I don't-"

"_Sammy_." Dean drags his name out, the last syllable turning into a moan that has Sam fully looking at him, brow drawn up in confusion. Dean's watching him with red eyes, searching his face for something and Sam wants to give it to him, if only he knew what _it_ is. But he doesn't have to wait long, because the next moment Dean's lunging forward and his lips are on his.

His brother is kissing him. _Hard_.

A muffled yelp of surprise gets lodged in Sam's throat as he's pushed down in the seat, Dean crawling on top of him, never breaking the kiss. Flashes of _wrongsoverywrongohgodwhat'shappening_ spiral through his mind but there's this other feeling, this very primal urge sprinting forward, claiming thought and action alike. It's as if Sam has finally found that missing piece and he's able to complete the puzzle and oh my god, _yes_. He's denied it because he wasn't sure if Dean felt the same way. He's kept it hidden, his own filthy little secret, because he'd been sure that if Dean found out he would leave. Curl his lips in disgust and tell Sam that he'd finally fell off his rocker.

Turns out Dean's the crazy one after all.

Eventually Dean pulls away and Sam is forced to repress a groan of displeasure at the absence. He stares up at his brother and sees pain, fear, everything that's coiled deep in his own stomach. There must be some sort of questioning expression on his face because Dean's lips tug into the beginnings of a smirk.

"You wanted me to deal, Sammy. This is me dealing."

And it's so bizarre that Sam has no choice but to go with it. The reasonable part of his mind is buzzing with questions, warning signs flashing and screaming and shouting but they're drowned out as Dean goes in for another kiss. It's slow, drawn out, and soon they're both panting with the need for _more_, go faster, because now that they've started there's no way they can stop. The need has grown too strong to deny and it's got Sam fumbling with the button of Dean's jeans. A rumble of laughter vibrates up Dean's chest, hot air blowing across Sam's neck as he struggles.

"Need a hand?" But before Sam has time to answer Dean's fingers are sliding down the front of his jeans and _oh,_ he means _that_ kind of hand. Sam is already hard and the contact from Dean's rough palm has him jerking beneath his brother, a low moan crawling up his throat. The friction caused by his jeans and now Dean's hand already has him close, so close, but Sam wants to draw this out. Needs to, because this is what he's been thinking of for so long and rushing through it would be a waste. No idea where it came from or why it started but that doesn't matter now; they both need this. Take their minds off the terrors and memories that lurk just beyond the car, out there in the darkness. In here, though, they're safe. Safe and warm and trembling from the _urge_ that's got Sam hurriedly unbuttoning Dean's jeans and then he's feeling his brother's dick, hard and twitching beneath his touch.

They start a steady rhythm then, awkward due to their positions and the cramped space but it works and soon both are panting, soft little huffs that's got Sam kissing Dean harder than he's kissed any girl, even Jessica. His mind has shut down and all that's there is the urge, and Dean. Dean squeezing his dick, rubbing it just right so that it almost hurts, sensation flickering on that elusive border between pain and ecstasy. And Sam is matching his brother's motions, pre-come slicking his hand, quickening his pace. Dean's making these keening noises in his throat, biting Sam's lip, one time too hard and there's a taste of copper but Sam ignores it because oh god, he's so close.

"Wanted to do this for a long time," Dean mutters, his voice so raw and labored that Sam's only allowed a moment to wonder how this happened, how is now the one taking care of him after breaking down and then he comes, body jerking as pleasure rolls through him in waves that crash and crash and _crash_ and his moan is swallowed by Dean's lips. Moments later he can feel Dean shudder above him as his orgasm crests and breaks and warm come spills over his hand.

Then they're still, save for the trembling that skitters across their skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. Sam is almost convinced he's having a nightmare but they aren't…oh god, they aren't supposed to make him feel like _this_. Like life is giving him a break and screwing around with his thoughts in the most impossible way. Dean shifts above him, pulling his hand from Sam's pants as he does the same moments later. He still has no idea what just happened but then Dean's face is looming over his own, lips curled in the biggest smile Sam has seen him wear in weeks.

"Feel good Sammy?" Dean's voice rumbles in his chest, and Sam finds himself liking his nickname a little more each time his brother says it. When they were younger it used to bother him, making him feel like he was always in Dean's shadow, unable to grow old enough to fight the monsters like their dad. Now, though, the name sends shivers racing through him and his back arching towards Dean. Dean laughs, the necklace that has hung around his neck for a lifetime swinging slightly as he shakes his head.

"What was it?" Sam questions, reconsiders. "What _is_ this, Dean?" Because honestly, he hasn't the slightest idea of what any of this could mean and that unknown scares him slightly; dark possibilities hedging closer to the edge of madness.

Before answering Dean lowers himself again, necklace pressing between their bodies, lips brushing Sam's, whisper-soft.

"Therapy."

Dean presses his lips against Sam's then, calling forth a desire that should be taboo and _wrong_ but is now met with an urgency on Sam's part, his hips bucking, hands running beneath Dean's shirt and across sweat-slicked skin.

It scares Sam more than anything he's ever faced, more than Jessica's death, more than their father's, but it's a fear he needs because he can feel it fixing something inside of him; a part that's jagged edges has been dragging across his soul for far too long. Dean is healing him by being here, being so close, giving the love that Sam has always been too afraid to ask for.

He's going to like therapy.


End file.
